The Enemy's Downfall
by kalonrain
Summary: British captain Sherlock Holmes and Patriot-sympathizer Margaret Hooper were never supposed to meet. [Revolutionary War AU, slow-ish burn]
1. Chapter 1

**Like historical inaccuracies? You'll love this. (I tried my best, but of course they are sprinkled here and there.)**

 **So, I have not been working on what I should, but I do have this story pretty much completed, which means you can expect pretty regular updates :) It's also one of the longest things I've ever written. Please enjoy, I'd love to know what you think!**

Her cloak nearly whips off her shoulders, and Molly throws out a desperate hand to catch it, sacrificing her cap to the wind, having missed it narrowly in the darkness. Lightning strikes deafeningly - intrusive to her eyes and ears, but illuminating the trees and her surroundings just long enough for her to tighten the grip on her basket.

Rain falls in relentless sheets, hard and rough against her weary shoulders, and her heart beats along to its frantic pace. Thunder crashes on every side of her, but she determinedly stays on the muddy road, ruling it her safest option.

The lightning cracks again, and the outline of a horse appears suddenly in front of her. Molly stumbles, startled, and the horse rears with a thunderous whinny. She cries out as she slips, falling in the mud, landing strangely on her ankle.

" _Damn!_ " She hears a masculine voice shout distantly.

Hands are suddenly secure on her arms, helping her to standing position. She struggles to straighten and sort the rain-laden skirts, holding tightly onto the anonymous's hand. She can only just make out the shape of a tall, lean man before he's lifting her to sit on the horse's saddle by her waist, pulling himself up behind her. The reins are taken immediately, and the force of the wind pushes her body back into his. A quick command from his lips, and the horse is galloping along the road.

"Are you quite alright?" he yells over the deluge. His voice is deep, sending more shivers through her body. The ride is rough, forcing him to use his arms to steady her.

"Just my ankle," Molly calls back breathlessly, grimacing. "I believe I may have sprained it."

The man places his mouth closer to her ear, lips moving nearly against her skin. "There's a house just two miles down road. I'll take a look there."

The rain comes down harder, stinging her eyes and rendering her blind. Presently they approach a house, situated on the side of the road. He dismounts efficiently, twisting at the ties of his cloak as he does. The wool is thrown over her shoulders and he's quickly got her down from the horse's back, large hands nearly covering the width of her stays. Molly finds herself against his chest, strong arms tucked under her knees and back, barely jostling her as he runs for the stately house.

The door kicks in easily enough, and finally they are out of the rain, blinking drops of water off her eyelashes. They drip water in the darkened hallway for a moment before he's taking them up the stairs, nudging open doors with his boot until at last the man locates a bedroom, depositing her onto the bed unceremoniously, and commanding, "Stay here."

He's out of the room in a heartbeat, thundering down the steps.

Molly sits on the bed, listening to the muted rain against glass windows, when she suddenly becomes aware of her violent shivers. She tugs the wet cloak closer to herself in a vain attempt at warmth, her mind still muddled with the sound of lightning.

He's back, and for the first time, Molly is able to see him clearly. The darkness of the house and inconsistency of light highlights the shadows from his aristocratic cheekbones, and water plasters dark curls across his pale forehead. His face is severe, military and stern. He cuts a fine figure in breeches, and from her position, his eyes look dark.

The man crosses the room, tossing a pillow. "Here," he motions smoothly, "In a cupboard in the servants' kitchen." He begins removing his clothes, peeling away a navy coat, tugging the waistcoat from his shoulders. It leaves nothing but a white shirt, soaked through and sticking to his broad chest. Hastily, Molly averts her eyes, a blush rising high in her cheeks.

He rolls his eyes, impatiently pulling on the cravat around his neck. "Hypothermia," he emphasizes. "Best to remove the cold, _wet_ clothing as quickly as possible to prevent any more of a loss of your body heat. I had thought you might have known that."

She does, actually. Timidly, she brings shaking fingers to unlace her heavy cloak, allowing his own to slide off her shoulders. "What makes you believe that?"

"Herbs, in your basket. Medicinal mostly, for cuts - reducing blood loss. You went quite out of your way to find them, anyhow." He is kneeling in front of the fireplace, gathering dry logs in his arms to place in the hearth. A concise scratch, and a flame has leapt into the grate, beginning a blaze. He nods at her leg, raising dark eyebrows. "And hypothermia or not, your elevating that ankle is indicative of at least some basic medical knowledge."

Molly had tucked the pillow under her ankle, almost unconsciously. Her hands move up and down her arms slowly, seeking some warmth. "Is that all?" she asks, slightly weakly.

The fire cracks in the hearth, throwing sparks upward. He clasps his hands behind his back, standing to throw open a cupboard. The man speaks, his back turned to her. "I also know that you're a single, never-been-married woman with no desire to wed currently, living on your own with a recently deceased brother on a farm in the nearby town with one horse of whom you are especially fond of. I suspect your father was a doctor or some sort with whom you were very close, and made at least some effort to pass on the knowledge to you, which you accepted gratefully." A blanket is thrown her way.

He appraises her quickly, let eyes wander down her form, curving his mouth into an arrogant smirk. A slight pause - the room saturated only with rain on glass and thunder before it is broken by his launching into rapid-fire speech. "No ring, obviously not married. You could just be poor but sentimental people so often like some charm or token of some kind - _especially_ if he had died in some tragic accident, all of which are absent from your person. That and the fact that upon my entrance of this room you did not immediately bombard me with requests to send a message to your dearest, who would _surely_ be worried by now, what with you out in quite a bad storm and all. If you desired a husband, it surely wouldn't be too hard for you, as you are moderately attractive and capable, and not _quite_ firmly entrenched in the life of spinsterhood. You are unattached, as evidenced by the way you're not quite so _properly_ outraged at being alone with a man in nothing but his undergarments." Molly rubs an anxious thumb against the back of her pale hand, and he notices, raising his eyebrows with a renewed smirk. Continuing, "Your cloak was too large, too long on you - by five inches, I would say, rather tall for any female in the colonies but just within the shorter end for a male. As you're obviously quite small then I suspect so would be any of your family members. A relative, then. Couldn't've been a husband's, we've established that - but not a father either. The collar is the style of a young man, not typical of a male" - he glances at her, eyes narrowed in assessment - "of about mid-fifties to early-sixties. It only recently came to the colonies from England, maybe four or five years ago - unlikely that any man of such advanced years would wear such a garment. So, a brother - _but_ _how could you possibly know he's dead,_ you ask? You are overtly concerned with the state of the cloth, constantly straightening and touching without even noticing. Women are sentimental and by default I am afraid, _so are you._ You are wearing clothes of decent quality, it is unlikely that you would only be able to afford one cloak, the fact that you are wearing it at all, and that you never asked me to send along a reassuring note to anyone, so I can conclude quite assuredly that if it's your brother's, _then he is dead_." The man's baritone grew more impatient, and his fingers tapping agitatedly against the fireplace mantel to the rhythm of the rainstorm. He tears away from the ledge, pacing the length of the room. "A horse! - obvious tears and repairs on your dress around the hips, where one would rub against the rough hair of a horse ridden long and often. You were comfortable enough while riding on Redbeard, well anticipating and acclimated to the roughness of our journey. And as I already _told_ you, the plants in your basket indicated at least some medical connection, and as a doctor is not traditionally a woman's job, it is simplest to conclude that your father was a doctor. And _why_ pass on knowledge that is not usually a woman's to your daughter?" Each word enunciated like a bullet - "Because you are _especially_ fond of her."

He draws in a breath, far less laboured than one would think after such a long speech. He glances back at her, and a hand is waved dismissively. "The rest was just character analysis."

"Good Lord," Molly breaths out unsteadily, feeling as though she hadn't tasted the cold air in years. Her hands are curled tightly in her skirts, knuckles white with the strain.

"No," he corrects smugly. "Just observations."

She laughs quietly, reaching her hands back up to the waist of her dress. The warmth of the fire is filling the room, attempting to reach her through the soaked fabric. Molly hesitates.

He's gesturing impatiently at her with fine, slender musician hands. "Come now. Wet clothes off and a name, if you please."

Her hands twist worriedly in her lap, but she obliges softly, nodding her head, "Margaret Hooper. And you, sir?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answers decisively, with a swift, near-mocking bow. A tired sigh is pushed tersely through his teeth. "Are you going to take them off or shall I have to assist you? I suppose you _are_ aware of the risks."

"I...am," she hesitates. "Just not quite sure of the…safety guaranteed to me. As you say, I _am_ unattached, and rather wish...to remain so."

"And a loss of virtue or even the possibility a baby would harm that. I quite understand." Sherlock turns back to the fire, warming his front. He chuckles darkly, "No need to worry. It would be against my dear brother's dearest wishes should I involve myself with a colonist." A miniscule pause, and then, "Much less a _rebel_."

The blood in Molly's veins run cold, her hands freezing. "You're not...surely you can't be - "

He waves elegantly, indifferently at their surrounding. "Friends of my brother. Loyalist who packed up as fast as they could as soon as news of any unrest towards the _noble_ king reached their ears. You've no cause to fear - for once my proclivities align with his. I've no patience for delusional so-called _patriots_."

"You can't believe that," she says softly.

Sherlock snorts. "Of course I can. The odds are stacked quite severely against your party. Were I a religious man I'd say they haven't a prayer. A group of barely organized farmers against a highly efficient, highly experienced, and _highly_ skilled army and if I was a betting man, I'd stake my reputation that this little rebellion is over within the coming year."

She holds no false sense of optimism, well aware of the many disadvantages the colonist face, yet to hear them so cruelly pointed out turns a reasonable woman into a fierce one. For the first time, she is glaring at him. "You're wrong."

He tilts his head, observing her with an amused smirk. "Hardly ever."

Molly's teeth snap together testily and with vicious intent she pushes the sturdy gown off her shoulders, no longer shy or uncertain of the intentions of this man. In a moment she has it fully off, throwing the fabric towards him and he catches it neatly, draping it over a chair near the hearth. Like a common rake, he sweeps appreciative eyes over her slender figure in a shift and stays before the blanket is firmly wrapped around her body.

"I suppose you are a soldier then?" she fair accuses, anger turning her tone lower. "Indecency and a lack of respectable manners is something I've found plentiful in the British army."

He laughs, angular face reflecting white lightning and warm fire strangely. "Oh, indeed. Britain's finest boys aren't nearly as outstanding as we tell our faithful citizens." Cloaks are carefully laid out to dry, spread on the dusty floor. "Captain Holmes is my title. I'm not here out of any burning passion for my country, only because dear brother has exiled me. Once the army has put an end to the disquiet I will be let back into my birth country and left - quite overdue and deservingly - to my experiments."

"Abandonment not within your moral code?" she questions tartly.

A short bark of laughter escapes him. "Would that I could. I've not much a care for my reputation nor my men, but Mycroft has quite cleverly paid off any potentially willing captains and their crew for any boats out of the New World." Sherlock widens his eyes dramatically, long strides filling the room. "They tense anytime I approach the docks."

Patriot or not, Molly has never been one for cruelty. Her softer eyes see an enemy standing before her, yes, but not an enemy fully committed to his cause, indeed not much more than a man cursed of circumstance and with a wish for a different life. And, rather feeling a headache coming on, she opted for a lighter comment, not wishing to combat with this man any further than she already had. "If only your king shared your dislike of the colonies, Captain Holmes. Perhaps there would be no need for any battles at all."

" _My_ king has no love or affection for the people or land indeed, but rather the _money_ earned holds a very special place in his heart, I should think."

With _this_ she does agree. It is evident to her and her fellow like-minded companions that King George III sees the colonists as nothing more than potential sources of profit for his kingdom, through inane taxes and policies. Similar subjects have fueled conversation lasting much longer than the usual allowance one topic usually musters, and stirring up emotions more vehement than typically seen. Her own brother had been a plentiful source of such spirited passion, until a late case of the pneumonia caught and took him away. She mourned often that he had never lived to see his beliefs carried to real actions, making her all the more determined to see it herself.

Tears threaten Molly's eyes, but she determinedly blinks them back.

The conversation had come to its nature conclusion, and had been merely hastened by the sudden appearance of Miss Hooper's tears. Sherlock - in uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, but more than that simply from being wildly uncomfortable - elected to draw her attention to more prevalent and safe topic. He clasps his hands together in a sharp clap. "Now, then, Miss Hooper. You shall take the bed, and I'll make do at the hearth. Tomorrow morning, I will take you back to your home, weather providing."

It seems to her most irregular - and rather improper - that he should stay in the room, hearth or not. Molly makes to voice these thoughts when he interrupts.

"Warmth is vital to both you and I, Miss Hooper. I am not quite alert enough to spot any warning signs in myself, but I do trust you - perhaps ill-advisedly - to catch them in me. I had been out in the storm just as you had, and I daresay just as long. And more than that, there is not enough firewood for two separate blazes. Rest assured, you'll have no improper behavior here." His eyes gleam, argument made and won. "You'll just have to bear it, if only for a night."

She nods, a little unsteadily - rather dizzied by his rapid change in manner, but quite swayed by the sensibility in his logic.

"And I can trust you? To be good, decent." The storm continues to rage outside, wind howling its pleas to be let inside, and shivering, Molly thought she might be rather glad for some company, even a rather poor one.

"I'm afraid you have no other choice."

"I'll say goodnight, then," she says softly, before tucking herself under the frugal blanket.

He acknowledges her much the same, arranging his own items in an attempt to gain some comfort on the dusty, cold floor. Damp clothing is pushed to the side and replaced with a sheet, rips running down the cloth like ugly gashes. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in slight disgust, but makes no complaint.

Out of habit, Molly starts to unwind her hair from its wet bun, pulling the locks loose. She threads the strands into a thick braid, tying off neatly with a ribbon and pushes it behind her shoulders. Her hands drop to her lap, eyes falling naturally on the torso of Captain Holmes as he struggles to make his place more comfortable.

He twists to straighten the sheet, and suddenly an ugly pattern of black, purple, and blue is visible to her just above the collar and through the sheer fabric.

"You've a bruise!" she cries, startled and more than just a little concerned.

A low laugh, though he doesn't turn around. "I am an army man, Miss Hooper," is his reply, "you'll have to be more specific."

But no matter his lack of worry, she's off the bed, bare feet padding quickly towards him. She stops, just a foot away. Her fingertips ghost over the spread of unnatural colors on his turned back, trailing it lightly though the thin cotton. It scorches him.

"It looks fairly recent," she murmurs, brow furrowed slightly. "And more than just a bit painful, I should think."

Sherlock twists his fine neck, craning to glance unconcernedly at the damage. "When I fell off Redbeard, most likely." A fond smile at the corner of his lips. "Damn animal can't handle any scares."

Molly is immediately aware of the shortened proximity between her and the captain, and she drops her hand and steps back, her head tipping in a natural bow, a blush beginning to make its way up her cheeks.

"Enough playing nurse now," Sherlock says, pointedly - but with a certain degree of amusement. "We've quite the journey tomorrow."

Molly concedes that this is true, and soon she is back on the bed. Sleep, however, eludes her, blurring at the edges of her vision but never further. She lies on her side, all too aware of the man on the floor in front of her, swearing to herself that she could feel his very warmth. Mad thoughts of an insane redcoat murdering her in her bed race through her mind, but soon the exhaustion from the day overtakes her, and she is sleeping peacefully.

The same could not be said for Captain Holmes.

 **I hope you liked the deduction scene - took me about two weeks to write it and figure out what he could see. Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! You guys were so sweet, so insanely encouraging - I really, really appreciate it. I've worked really hard on this story, so I really love when people tell me what they think.**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter, please tell me what you think!**

 **Politics, Problems, and Patriots:**

Molly had always had a habit of rising early, her lifestyle on her farm both encouraging and demanding it, yet after such a trying night she was still found beneath the blanket at well beyond dawn. As such, Captain Holmes took it upon himself to wake her, abruptly and with a sharp clap.

" _Up_ ," he punctuates tersely. The curtains are thrown open, harsh light filtering in through the glass panes. He is dressed pristinely, cravat once again tied snugly around his neck, waistcoat buttoned firmly back in place.

She yanks the covers hastily to cover her shift, daylight exposing her insecurities and doubts more plainly than the darkness of a storm ever did. He doesn't acknowledge it though, barely glances at her, makes no move to approach.

"Dress yourself" - he gestures at her clothes laid out neatly over a chair in front of the hearth - "and then come meet me outside." Before she can speak he is gone, out the door and down the stairs.

Molly blinks a little, before slowly going to pick up her blue gown. Her stays need to be tightened after loosening during her rest, so she tugs at them - too tightly. She gasps, recovering for a moment, resting a hand against the bedpost while drawing in frantic breaths before stepping lightly into the dress. She is just straightening her skirts when he interrupts.

" _Hurry!_ " His baritone comes distantly, through walls and floors. It sounds irritated, anxious to get started - Molly has no complaints, but can't help but rather bristle at the tone of the captain.

"I _am_ ," she murmurs to herself, yanking at the hem of her petticoat just a little harder. There are some ill-placed wrinkles, but the cloth seems relatively dry and suitable. Quickly, her red cloak is wrapped and fastened around her shoulders.

Upon stepping into the bright sunlight, a hand automatically comes up to shield her face, reminding her once more of the loss of her favorite cap.

The captain's back is turned to her, his fine hands working smoothly to straighten and fix the straps on his horse's saddle. Her basket is tied neatly to the side, hanging down with herbs poking out. He speaks in a conversational tone, "Are you always this sluggish in the morning, Miss Hooper? I can't say I envy your brother - I suspect he's glad to be done with that."

Sherlock can't see her, but Molly is sure he hears the sudden hitch in her breath, shocked at how cruel he could be. Yes, her brother died some time ago, but death is death and always painful and she foolishly thought even he would be sensitive enough to that.

Sherlock finally turns, and only then can she see the dark circles under his eyes. He looks uncomfortable, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. His posture is stiff, but his face betrays the exhaustion he harbours and unexpectedly, she feels a stab of sympathy for this unusually obtuse man. The darkness of that night had made his features harsh, older; the light softened him, revealing his years. Truly, he couldn't have been more than seven and twenty. Easily, he interprets the hurt in her face, bowing his head as respectfully as he can manage.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, eyes intent on the ground - not in true remorse or shame, rather just in tired regret. "Last night was not as restful as I had hoped." He darts his glance down to her ankle, nodding at it. "You seem better."

Surprised, Molly looks down at the aforementioned appendage, covered in skirts as it is, and realizes that the man is right, that she felt no pain - indeed, she hadn't even remembered her injury.

She shifts on her feet, frowning at the hidden injury. "It seems to bear weight well," she says, testing it to follow the comment. "But - _ah_ " - grimacing as it finally revealed some tenderness still - "I do believe it is not fully healed."

"Yes, well," he dismisses her concerns with an easy wave, "I am a captain, Miss Hooper. And captains need to tend to their men more than to the woes of ladies."

The smallest of smiles tugs at Molly's lips, amused at the oddities and obliviousness of his manner. Had he not mentioned his occupancy in the British army, she was quite sure she might have laughed. "How ever could I forget," she concedes gamely.

"Wherever your allegiances may lie, we both still have places to go, things to do. I think you'd agree it wise if we take our leave." He's crossing over to her in a stride, abruptly placing his hands on her waist - spanning it almost completely - and lifting her to sit upon Redbeard, one leg on each side, skirts riding up almost indecently.

Molly blushes, begins to protest, "Oh, perhaps I - I shouldn't - "

Sherlock swings himself up, once again settling easily, comfortably against her. "Not a word, Miss Hooper. We may switch five miles from our destination, if you like. I know you prefer it - the ridiculousness of side-saddle leaves little room for any comfort or desirable riding."

She couldn't argue - she knows it well enough. In the privacy of her own home and fields, she is an avid opposer to side-saddle, yet in the view of others Molly knows she isn't quite bold enough. It seems Captain Holmes cares little.

His strong arms come around her to grasp at the reins, and he gently urges Redbeard on with an affectionate pat and command. The horse trots away from the house briskly, and she can feel Sherlock's pleased smile.

"From your home in England?" she asks, curious.

"No," he replies, lowly in her ear. The warmth from his chest radiates through her body, and she's glad - the cold morning air nips at her. "Transportation of animals on boats is something I believe too cruel, Miss Hooper. An extended journey as such from England to the colonies is far too much of a risk for any living being. Redbeard is," he pauses, reluctant for his next words, "an American."

Molly laughs lightly, delighting in this small irony. In earlier time she might've bristled, but the return of sunshine lifts her mood greatly. "An American? We are all British here, in your king's eyes. You should be careful, Captain Holmes - you never know who may be listening."

He smiles tightly, but indulgently. Sardonically, "Big brother isn't _here_." He continues, lighter, "And much like the Virginians, I find I am quite enamoured by horses, the mechanics of their speed and sprint." As he talked, his deep voice grew more animated, a hand lifting from the rein to further gesture his point. "Redbeard is a Bay, one rather adept at distance racing, but still" - a wide grin takes his face - "you'd be hard pressed to find a horse faster than he."

"You ought to have met my brother, Captain. He was quite fond of horses - though often disappointed in the lack of patience I displayed when he talked of them." Molly remembered it well - a spirited man sitting across from her, waving his hands enthusiastically while trying to impart his love of the beasts to her.

"A case of poor timing, I suppose."

A snort would have escaped her, if she knew that wasn't the most ladylike thing in the world. Instead, she lets the rhythm of the horse's cadence settles into her bones, and finds herself swaying slightly to the timing of Redbeard's bumps.

"That's not to say I don't hold a fondness for them, Captain Holmes, you mustn't think me so severe. I do - in particular for my own creature, Toby." She smiles, wistful affection turning her features softer. "He's a reliable old thing, and can get fast enough to satisfy _my_ tastes. I just haven't the mind to keep all the facts and figures of winners in my head; I've an idea they fight for freedom from my memory."

"I don't often pardon people, Miss Hooper," he says grudgingly in her ear. "You might consider yourself fortunate."

"Fortune has nothing to do with it. But I do, Captain Holmes. Depend upon it, I do." Molly lays a hand against the coarse chestnut hair, stroking it softly. They trot some distance down the muddy road before quietly she asks, "Are you very much set in your ways?"

His hands tighten around the reins - and consequently, his arms around her. "I believe I am." The words blow across her braid, wound loosely down her back. "I quite pride myself in not being soft-willed, but rather a man willing to stand by his principles."

Molly smiles to herself, laughing at his sternness, but sure to keep it out of his sight. "But you cannot be a man deaf to any sensible arguments, surely?"

"No, ma'am, I believe I am not. A less reasonable being may, but I have been determined to be level-headed." A slow smirk, "But only but rarely has anyone constructed and presented an argument that has convinced me - indeed, I believe no one ever has."

To Molly it read like a challenge. "And I don't suppose you'd let me try?"

"Oh, by all means, do, Miss Hooper." Redbeard jumps over a fallen log, eliciting a startled gasp from her lips. Quickly, Sherlock pulls her snug against his broad chest, preventing any fall and steadying her easily. "What is your grievance?"

She draws in a soft breath at the movement, attempting to regain her composure. Hastily, she speaks, forgetting their subject but determined to bring normalcy back to the conversation. "The flaws and dangers in entrusting the well-being of people with the majority of whom no contact is made nor attempted into the hands of a man unfamiliar with the life of any sorts of struggles."

Sherlock snorts. "You speak of the king, to be sure." He leans forward, a command coming from his mouth to urge his horse into a faster trot. "I never argue in favour of the silliness of rituals and grandeur and other ridiculousness that the monarch often entertains, but know that the government is not quite as unbalanced as you might think." He narrows his eyes suddenly, tilting his head curiously near her neck. "You seem unusually well-versed in your case, Miss Hooper - especially for a woman."

Her shoulders pull unconsciously back, feeling his breath against her pale skin. A shiver - not from coldness this time - runs through her body. "A necessary characteristic of all hopeful convincers, I believe, Captain Holmes. What right has one to contest another if they are not aware of their own facts?"

He stares off the road, into the low-hanging trees. "Quite right." Abruptly Sherlock pulls himself together, tightening the knot of his cravat. "But not since James II in 1687 has the Parliament been willfully dissolved, and the gradually transition of responsibilities away from the current king has been a large source of anxiety for him. He still holds a large section, to be sure, but you should know current monarch doesn't quite follow the pattern of the more treacherous leaders, like," he pauses, smiling wryly, "Charles I."

The gears in her head start turning, searching and exploiting holes in his presentation. "Perhaps so. But for America, England never moves fast enough to keep time. You British talk of _Parliament_ , and _representatives_ , but the colonies are just as much a part of the commonwealth as you. Our crops alone support your king greatly, and yet we are taxed more substantially - without a representative - as though we are nothing more than a burden on your budget."

She glances back to gauge his reaction for a moment, and finds her breath startled and caught at the fine features of his face. His eyes are closer, close enough to notice the blue and green diffused across them. If he notices her stare, he does not acknowledge it.

"There are dangers, I suppose, in treating the colonists below their deserved position," he replies methodically, his face a smooth stone revealing nothing.

"Would that the king could have some of your good sense." It's a dry comment, but Sherlock doesn't rise to the bait. Her voice rises passionately, and her own hands move to gesticulate her ideas more thoroughly. "But the time for placation is long over, Captain Holmes - you'll find the patriots eager to show their strength in military and mind."

"Passion may take you far in life, but against a strong army I'm afraid it does nothing." He flashes a winning smile, all white teeth and false sincerity. "You might as well give up the cause now, you may not end up on the victorious side."

Her lips part for an infuriated retort, but he nods ahead of him, interrupting her words. "Here we are, Miss Hooper. If I am not mistaken - and I am not, this is your home."

It was indeed; familiar trees and fields, but she can only blink at it, asking slightly baffled, "But how did you know?"

"Pollen," he answers simply, jumping off Redbeard and helping her down with an extended hand. His fingers fall just short of her wrist, and she's glad he can't feel her pulse thumping frantically. "I noticed it on your clothes when I took them. The amount and color of the mud of your shoes, the necessity of fields to accommodate the horse you spoke of, the direction you were walking, an estimate on how far a woman of your constitution and size could walk before the surprising yet inevitable storm, and the fact that you have just confirmed it for me." He gives her an arrogant smirk, swinging gracefully back atop his horse. "Unfortunately, Miss Hooper, we part now as people unmoved, as is usually the ending of any good and decent debate. No argument is an argument without passionate people quite unwilling to alter their views. Trust me, I've plenty of it with my brother."

"Or perhaps you run out of fear that I was close." Molly curtsies slightly, recognizing their time and conversation together is coming to a conclusion.

"That doesn't sound like me. Good day, Miss Hooper, though I suspect we may see each other soon." Sherlock turns Redbeard in a tight circle, the shiny coat reflecting the sun proudly. He nods at her skirts from atop his perch. "Rest that ankle."

And quickly, with a terse snap of the reins, he is galloping down the road, and out of her sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Happy Easter Weekend (to everyone who celebrates)! Definitely not one of my favorite chapters, but important plot-wise and for romantic obstacles.**

 **Thank you for the reviews - they're my favorite part of all this :) Please enjoy!**

 **Slight warning: _attempted_ sexual assault - nothing happens, but someone tries.**

The next dawn finds Molly hard at work, tending to the tasks she'd overlooked, if only for a night. It's a pleasanter day, all sunshine and blue skies, but she finds herself quite distracted - not by the weather - but some other preoccupation. The chores she has left are nothing more than menial work mostly requiring only her hands, and she - fortunately, unfortunately - had found herself left with plenty of time to ponder on the characteristics of a certain man.

A bucket swings merrily from her slender fingers, as Molly walks down her private path to the barn. The door creaks open with familiar groans, allowing the foul smells to creep into the crisp air. She pays no mind, plunging headfirst into the dark building, and making her way to the stalls.

While beginning the routine that is milking, her mind wanders. Sherlock Holmes was handsome and young, to be sure - Molly could see that, and more so could hardly deny it. It seemed to her that he must be brilliant also, otherwise she wouldn't have been so carefully and thoroughly depicted in his simple - but more than that, _true_ \- observations of her. But she could not reconcile herself with the fact that he was a British officer. _He -_ a Loyalist? Molly wouldn't have believed that he wasn't a man of good sense, but his opinion on the colonists leaves her no other choice. Then again, her thinking on the Patriots and their cause certainly made her a biased view.

But perhaps he wasn't quite as adamant as she had thought. He had said so himself that he was a banished man, parted from his beloved country and sent to a foreign one. It is possible that resentment at the punishment had clouded his otherwise untarnished intelligence. Molly wished this were the truth - he seems a decent enough man, and as everyone with a soul as kind as Molly's yearned: every good man should be on the right side of history.

Or maybe the captain was right. The odds are certainly not for the Patriots, what with the British's highly trained and successful army, their seemingly limitless resources, the world-renowned navy - perhaps this strange man could see something that she could not, possessed a foresight she had not. His calculating mind connects the pieces of information easily and his conclusion is that the colonists cannot win this war against England.

Molly's lips flatten into a frown, upset at the uncertainty within her usually unwavering opinion. Captain Holmes had shaken her views, and she found she rather disliked it - it felt disloyal to her brother, her fellow colonists, and even herself. She was glad of having the chance to speak with him - an intellectual match willing to talk to a lady of more than the salvation of God or the uptick of bad weather they have been having lately is someone she values dearly but even so, Molly was quite glad to see the back of him.

She surveys the bucket's contents despondently, before making her way back to the house. There she yanks open the bare cupboard, assessing the contents and then her kitchen with a sigh.

The warm milk is poured carefully in several jars, then gathered to be placed in a woven basket. She situates the rough handle on her forearm, closes the door behind her, and makes way for the market.

The market was located in the center of the bustling town, regularly occupied by the wealthier and lower classes. Stalls line the circle, bright fruits and vegetables filling their wood boxes to the brim. As always; it's busy, and Molly smiles and greets many familiar faces as she picks her way carefully through the crowd towards a particular stall.

There a portly man stands surrounded by haggling and bartering cooks, as well as a few overzealous locals. The kindly man looks harassed and tired but immediately brightens upon seeing her. "Oh, Molly, my dear," Mike Stamford sighs, relieved, "I'm glad to see you're alright." He presses a coin into her hand, and she hands him a jar fondly.

"I was home quite before the storm, Mr. Stamford." It's a lie, but Molly doesn't know why she told it. Perhaps it was the shame in receiving some charity from a sworn enemy of someone with her principles, or perhaps she wasn't quite ready to explain the whole of the situation. "It's kind of you to ask after me."

"I thought it only right, my dear, I thought it only right." He lays an affectionate palm against her white cheek, smiling at her jovially. Lines crinkle around his eyes as he regards her. For a moment Stamford looks sorrowful - but then he pats her quickly, saying, "Now, off with you! I will be by and by Sunday."

Molly laughs, happiness curving her lips into an easy smile. She nods her goodbye at Mr. Stamford, teasing back as a smitten maid, "And I will be waiting at the window, sir, eager to greet you."

She picks up her skirts, depositing the remainder of her jars among the usual suspects with cheerful "here you are"s and "a lovely day, isn't it?"s, gathering a small sum in a leather pouch. A woman at the corner points to a lovely flower, bright and blooming, so Molly - light at heart and in easy manners - accepts, handing the woman a glass jar in exchange. Business done and people seen, she starts to make her way back home, walking past two buildings when suddenly she is grabbed, and slammed against the wall in a darkened alley.

Molly gasps, startled and instantly fearful. The flower slips from between her finger, before being crushed under the boot of a stranger. The man pins her back against the brick with a strong forearm, bunching her apron in a fist and ripping it to the ground. He leans in, blonde scruff brushing against her temple, whispering in her ear, "My, my - what have we here? You must forgive my roughness, but a soldier does get _so lonely_."

She opens her mouth to scream, and immediately he silences her, pushing a large hand against her lips. Callouses scrap at her cheek, the slightest bit of dirt smearing across it. She tries to push him away, but his uniform-clad body shoves harder, keeping Molly firmly in place. He trails his fingers at her neckline, and makes to go further -

" _Moran,"_ a deep voice makes itself known from further down the alley.

Her attacker stiffens, a palm still wandering intrusively and a rough hand clamped over her mouth. His breath is hot and heavy against her skin, and she closes her eyes to block the sight. "Captain Holmes," the man bites out, not bothering to look at his superior.

"I believe I had assigned you a post, soldier." For the first time, Molly sees him in his full uniform - the hated red glowing ostentatiously against the shadows, white breeches tucked neatly into the black boots. A sword hangs at his side, extending beyond the knee to nearly trail in the dust. The strange light of the alley cuts shadows across the planes of his face, lips set tersely in clear displeasure. He looks every bit the commanding military he represents.

Moran smiles wolfishly at Molly - noting her wandering eyes, and she whimpers against his palm, struggling under his iron grip. His eyes are a spider-web of ice blue, freezing her in a terrified stance under their force. His grip tightens, the beginnings of bruises making themselves known on her arms. He leers at her, responding jovially, "I believe I found a different task to pay mind to, Captain." His head tilts to finally look at Sherlock - freeing Molly from the gaze, eyes holding mock-innocence with a challenge beneath. "Holds my attention easier, I must admit."

Captain Holmes stares back, his own eyes dark and still in fury. His body is rigid, hands clasped behind his back as he says, "Then hear this, Moran, from your _commanding_ officer - _get back to your post._ "

For a moment they stay locked upon each other, neither backing down as she casts worried glances between them, frightened of the tension gathering. Her heart is pumping erratically - hard enough that she's certain Moran, if not Sherlock, can hear it - and the blood thunders loud and intrusive in her ears, burning hot through her bones.

Moran breathes out, puts on an easy smile and releases his hold, allowing her to sag relieved against the rough brick. A hand is lifted out to caress her cheek carelessly - much like Stanford had done only moments before - and she nearly shudders, shrinking away from him.

He addresses her charmingly with a cavalier wink, "You might pardon me, ma'am - but I suspect there's no harm done." Molly's face blushes with the implications and Moran saunters past his officer, an easygoing air following him and a merry whistle lilting from his lips. Captain Holmes watches him leave, tense as he carefully tracks his movements.

As soon as Moran leaves their sight, the captain relaxes, immediately stepping towards her, asking earnestly, "Miss Hooper, are you quite alright?"

She flinches away unconsciously, her hands crumpling the ripped fabric of her dress into bunches, and he draws his hand back as though burned, returning it to behind his back.

"Of course," he reprimands himself stiffly. "I was not thinking."

She leans against the wall, small unsteady breaths still pushing through her lips as she attempts to slow them. Sherlock sweeps his gaze down her - the well-kept yet still tattered dress with a new rip to accompany the countless others, the fraying basket now overturned on the ground - it speaks of her obvious situation: _poor, perhaps struggling to keep afloat_. Strands of hair hang limply out of her rumpled bun, dirt brushed black across pale skin. The beginnings of tears gather in her eyes, and when her breath slows, she lifts them slowly to look fully at him.

He's startled by the woundedness in her eyes, framed by her dark lashes. They're weary, white rimmed with the slightest red, and reproachful.

Sherlock knows what she sees: the enemy. If she was not fully convinced during their trip back from the cowardly Loyalists' house, she surely is now - having been attacked by his very own soldier.

"And this is your army?" Molly asks, tiredness and bitterness mixing to stain her words. Lines appear around her eyes as they harden, lips struggling to stay still. "This is the superior military commanded by the best of Britain?"

"I do not train my soldiers to attack women, Miss Hooper," Sherlock responds stiffly, defensiveness rising in him, an automatic response against the guilt that usually lies dormant.

She laughs derisively, gesturing at the last sight of the retreating back of Moran. "No punishment, Captain Holmes, is the same as no crime." He watches as she bends to gather her torn apron from the dirt, wincing as she does so. "That man will get away with nothing more than maybe a harsh word from his captain."

He bows his head in uneasy acknowledgement; Moran _will_ get nothing more than perhaps a slap on the wrist. "There is some protection for men like Moran in the company, yes - officers who favour them, justification of their crimes." The British army enjoys masquerading as all the most honorable men in Britain, but often crimes are committed at the hands of those men and more than often they turn a blind eye.

Molly turns her head away hopelessly, the stray strands of chestnut trailing on her bare neck. Her pale arms are covered with small scratches, the beginnings of scarlet blood appearing. Quietly, almost so he cannot hear it, she asks wearily, "And what protection is offered for me? This man will surely come back as soon as your back is turned - there is nothing to stop him."

Again, this is true. Discomfort and guilt rises in his throat, but he forces it down as best he can. Looking at the back of her head - and quite aware of the effect his words might have, he cautiously ventures, "I take no pleasure in leaving you, Miss Hooper, but I am afraid I have some matters to attend to."

She does not turn to answer - her palms pressing harder against the bricks - instead she replies softly, "I take no pleasure in your company, Captain Holmes; go if you must." Her face is turned away, so he cannot catch sight of a path cutting through the stains on her cheeks, a tear dripping solitary from her chin to land on her exposed collarbone.

Quickly he bows, hand placed just upon his waist. Molly does not acknowledge it - instead choosing to lean her head against the side of the building, brow furrowing in a simple show of quiet misery. Sherlock hesitates - unsure of leaving her in such a disheveled state, but eventually he turns, walking past her scattered fruits and overturned basket, mounts his horse, and leaves her behind.

 **If you think Sherlock is too cruel, I agree. But I think that Patriot versus Loyalist would have been too easy to overcome, and I needed more tension and barriers between them. Let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Uh oh, major plot points...**

 **Tell me what you think! It's the highlight of my day.**

A sharp knock startles Molly from her sleep, the darkness of the room revealing the hour as still yet dawn. There is no fire in the hearth, the fear of it spreading far outweighing the cold winters in the north. The knock comes again, reverberating throughout her home without apology or hesitation.

Molly pushes the covers back hesitantly, the slightest alarmed at whatever or whoever was down at her door. Her arms groan at the movement, the purple bruises doing their best to remind her of their presence, thin cuts flaring with pain. Carefully, she ties a blue-striped dressing gown around her waist, and allows a solitary candle to guide her way to the door.

When she opens it - a hand on a freezing handle, there stands two rigid shadows against the nearly black sky, with only a sprinkling of stars to frame their silhouettes. A gust of cold air pushes into her home and she shivers, tugging the gown - and the meager heat of the candle - closer.

The shorter of the shadows speaks, and he is close enough to her light for strange slices of his nose, forehead, and hair to appear, and for her to recognize particularities of the red uniform.

"Forgive me, ma'am, for waking you."

"What's this about?" she asks cautiously, uncertainty turning her words questioning. Molly had no cause to fear, no laws broken or other illegalities, but still her heart pounds as though she was hoarding rebels in her own bedroom. The wisps of brown hair out from her braid stir against her neck.

The boy bows his head respectfully, sandy hair tangling messily with the winds. "In compliance to the Quartering Act of 1774, you are expected and obliged to house a British captain in your home for as long a duration as the army has need of you."

The taller man steps forward, his black cloak flowing around his ankles, his features sharpening at the new distance - and only then can Molly recognize Captain Holmes. Her stomach curls unpleasantly, breathing becoming unsteady.

"I trust you won't mind, Miss Hooper," he smirks, twisting his full lips into an attractive, smirking curve. Her chin juts up defensively, automatically - unpleasant memories from the past fortnight coming back to her. Molly had successfully avoided going into town for nothing more than the bare necessities, and thus had renewed some of her ill-lasting feeling of safety. But with the appearance of British soldiers - particularly the captain - on her doorstep, it was quickly disappearing. "We keep meeting," Sherlock says, all false politeness and oozing flattery.

"Captain Holmes," she acknowledges blankly, dropping into a slow curtsey - he bows back in kind. "You are to be my boarder, I presume." Barely concealed anger lies beneath her calm expression, sparking and snapping with every word the man uttered. Her brother would have raged at the thought of one of the British soldiers living along her - he was always hot-headed and itching to start a fight, with his sister ever the peacemaker.

Of course that had changed when he had died.

Sherlock grins. "I prefer temporary house guest, Miss Hooper. It makes it seems ever the more cozier. The British headquarters for the officers in town is too grand, and I rather wish to be away from it." He nods his head to her stable, suddenly dropping his severe features back into seriousness. "I hope you don't mind" - _I don't imagine you would care if I did,_ she thinks - "but I took the liberty of settling myself in just a little - Redbeard is already in his stall, hay and water at the ready. I can assure you, tending to my horse will not be your duty, I'm fond of it myself."

The boy soldier shifts uncomfortably, reading the tension between them easily. Sherlock takes note, as he does of everything, and directs at him dismissively, "You may go, Wiggins. Your post has already been assigned, I trust you know your duties tomorrow."

Wiggins smiles relieved, eager to prove himself to his admirable captain. He salutes, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, ending with the proclamation, "Very good, sir."

Sherlock waves him away with an impatient hand. "Yes, yes - off with you." His eyes turn stern on the boy, though driven with careful fondness. "Mind you be careful on those roads - many in these parts are eager to attack a British soldier, especially a young and unprotected one such as yourself."

Wiggins nods solemnly, absorbing his captain's words as the bible's teachings themselves. He reaches a careful hand to pat his musket seriously, a rather comical display - in Molly's eyes - of a boy brainwashed by British propaganda. _What a difference your inclination makes to your perception,_ she thinks bitterly; to her he was a positive caricature, to Captain Holmes a dedicated soldier.

Before the boy turned to go however, he sent an uncomfortable look to the pair left standing on the doorstep, well aware of the rather lack of propriety in leaving an unmarried man and unmarried woman alone. Molly, with the intent of sharing some raised words with the captain, managed to send him a reassuring smile, sending the young boy off with a renewed sense of security. Wiggins hesitates no longer, bounding down the dark road with enthusiastic strides.

She and the captain are left alone, and in the suffocating silence Molly finds herself surreptitiously avoiding his eyes. There are no general rules of etiquette for a forced guest, and if there were, she does not pretend to know them.

Sherlock studies her closed off expression with a sigh, remarking flippantly, "I had thought you might've been pleased, Miss Hooper. You have been avoiding the town for quite some time – a fortnight, if I'm not mistaken, and I never am – and considering the recent chain of events I surmise that it was due to some fear of a repeat of the Moran incident. You might even have done so out of some misplaced blame on me. I am aware that you felt that there was no protection in place for you, nothing to deter the man from attempting again. Well, behold," he spreads his arms, in mock grandness, "your new protection."

For a moment she is struck, at the arrogant confidence in his voice, at his presumptuous statements. "Should I be grateful, Captain Holmes?" Molly cries with sincere earnestness, glad of a chance to let him know of her feelings. "Should I thank you for offering yourself as my _guard_ by forcing your way into my house, by way of nothing more than law?"

His dark eyebrows raise in surprise, perhaps taken aback by the vehemence in her tone or perhaps not expecting any at all. Either way, he drew himself up imperiously, saying coolly, "I rather thought you would, Miss Hooper. Is it so unfathomable for you to contemplate the idea of thanking a man who has given up all comforts of the town to stay in the unremarkable house of a near-spinster for the benefit of none but her own?"

"You are mistaken, Captain. I do not pretend to be ungrateful for the protection you are offering me, but you - a private man, I assume - coming into my home as an uninvited guest through a law you _must_ know I am _morally_ opposed to is an offense to not only myself, but also a clear sign of the _disregard_ and lack of any respect you have for me!" Her voice begins to become frayed, rising in volume and devastation. "And _more_ than that, there are consequences beyond what you might think. You will alienate me from the people I love, a British soldier living in harmony beside me. And an unmarried man and woman together _alone?_ Whatever little chance of marriage I had left you have _finally_ destroyed. " She ends her tirade there, her breaths coming fast and dissipating quickly in the frigid air.

Sherlock is stiff, face stony and unmoved even under the force of her harsh words. "Perhaps I did not - "

"What? _Consider?_ " she laughs humorlessly. "You serve only to further my own argument, Captain Holmes."

They stand there, and suddenly Molly is aware of every sound the woods are making, the rustling trees and the rush of a stream - it seeps between them, further the gap in any understanding.

"Miss Hooper," Sherlock finally says, his features and tone softening enough for her to keep the calm in her own, "I am not a sensitive man, nor am I one that has ever claimed to be astute to the feelings of any women - frankly they are always so damn changeable that one should never attempt." At this Molly's lips purse, partly out of annoyance and partly out of amusement at how obviously out of his depth the captain was. "When I left you that time ago, I had believed myself to be doing the right thing - I was going to immediately look to have myself removed from the officer's' house." He pauses, and she is given a chance to process this new information, her hurt and anger dissipating the slightest bit. "I am aware, however, that I have offended you, therefore" - he struggles for a moment, his strange blue-green eyes looking almost panicked, an uncomfortable swallow - "I - I am...sorry."

"You're sorry," she repeats softly, tasting the words on her own tongue. They are familiar to her, but foreign from him. An apology, from a man who not more than a fortnight ago spoke unrepentantly and almost cruelly of her dead brother and thin prospects.

Sherlock winces, but nods confirmingly. "Yes. You must try and believe that when I issued the order and straightened out the paperwork I did it with...the _best_ of intentions."

Molly doesn't reply, her eyes dropping to the hem of her dressing gown, watching the dry leaves swirl around it. She feels all of a sudden tired, too drained to put up anymore of a fight. Her thick braid feels heavy on her shoulder, the weight of it strangely present.

"I saw the way you looked when I left you." His voice is hesitant, but enticingly deep - she closes her eyes at the velvet, a breeze stroking across her eyelids. The candle flickers uncertainly in her hand, wavering in its constancy. "I had thought this" - Sherlock searches for a word with a helpless look upwards - "the best solution."

A soft sigh pushes through her lips, and she opens her eyes to a near-pleading face. His cheekbones create the same harsh shadow as always, mouth closed decidedly, but his eyes and words seem genuine enough; Molly is not a cruel woman, believing apologies deserve forgiveness. Besides, the night is cold, her body weary, and the man is standing in his uniform with the most unbearably vulnerable expression.

Molly steps to the side, lifting a hand to welcome him into the house. Not entirely forgiven however, she asks with only civil tiredness, "And how am I to repay you, Captain Holmes?"

A half-relieved smile tugs at his full lips, as he steps through the door - into his new residence. She could have laughed - how out of the commonplace he looked, all dressed up in a uniform where her brother had once cursed the very same color. Charmingly: "I've always been fond of a home cooked meal, Miss Hooper."


	5. Chapter 5

**Baaaaackstory! Who wants it?**

Molly jolts awake and upright, her breathing rapid and heart pounding frantically in her ears. Her body is coated in a cold sweat, shaking as she tries to regain control of herself. Her throat feels rough, as though she'd been screaming - which, she realizes with a jolt, she most likely had.

 _A sudden, sporadic gunshot - and immediately the screams of startled people -_

The room is suddenly oppressively hot, and the darkness seems intrusive against her eyes. She pushes away the covers, but it offers little relief. It's overwhelming, the amount of sensations she can feel - every inch of the bed against her skin, the air against her tears. Her body shudders again as she begins to sob, true panic and fear running through her body.

"Miss Hooper?" The shadow stands at her doorway, voice the slightest bit breathless. _He must have run to my room upon hearing the screams_ , Molly notes to herself distractedly. She shakes her head strongly, still leaning her trembling head against the heel of her palm.

"I heard your screams - are you quite alright?" Sherlock sounds concerned now - in a stiff, odd way, and she wishes she could summon up the strength or energy to be bitter. His statement is reminiscent of their time in the alley.

Her shoulders shake with suppressing the sound of her cries. She's breathing too hard still, but tries for some semblance of normalcy. In a forced detached voice, "I am sorry to have woken you, Captain Holmes - is there something you need?"

 _A body falls against her, heavy and hot in the panicking crowd - she cries out, falling to the ground -_

He is gone, and though she must've asked for it, Molly feels suddenly so lonely in the dark room, on a bed by herself. The sound of her own tears and sobs are too much in her ears, and she could almost wish for a second pair to share the burden.

Bile and acid rises in her throat, and she falls to the side of the bed, heaving and spitting up the sour combination. A quivering hand is lifted to wipe at her mouth, but the taste won't go away. Molly coughs frantically, still gasping for breath.

 _Blood, everywhere down the front of her dress - but where did it come from -_

Molly can hear him re-enter the room, and she turns her head away from him, the better to hide the new twin tears streaking cold down her face. A mug is pushed in front of her eyes, filled to the brim with murky water and she glances startled up at Sherlock - drops clinging to her dark lashes, to the bottom rim of her eyes.

"Here," he says brusquely. "Honey and water - the heat is naturally calming and the honey has properties that soothes anxiety and aids deep sleep. And I am partial to honey myself; bees and the sort - I had rather imagined you would be too, given your preferences. Of course, I would have gone for the traditional cure but" - the corner of his mouth quirks up into an ironic smirk - "no tea."

She nearly laughs, her own lips curving up reluctantly as he plays the good sport - her hands have stopped their trembling.

Sherlock clears his throat, straightening the sleeve of his blue dressing gown militarily before crossing to kneel on the hearth of her fireplace. Molly takes a cautious sip from the cup, relishing the sweet liquid as it washes away the acidic residue in her throat. The heat does indeed calm her, stabilizing some of the adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Quickly, he has a fire blooming, and she is reminded of the same situation, some stormy night a fortnight or so ago. Molly had never anticipated any further contact with this man and yet here they are; in her bedroom, in their night clothes. A log cracks and rolls to the side, and she watches the flames with calm, detached fascination.

The heat reaches her face, dries the still-streaking tears. He lights a candle - it flickers gloomily in the dark room.

Bones still weary, she reaches out a tired hand in the direction of her dressing gown folded over a chair, and Sherlock understands, immediately standing to fetch it for her with uncharacteristic deference. Molly accepts it gratefully, wrapping it completely around her body.

His stormy eyes watch her intently for a moment, before he asks decidedly, boldly, "What were you dreaming of?"

She of course isn't surprised - brash and direct are his trademarks - so she cradles the cup in her hands delicately, keeps her eyes on the leaping flames, and says calmly, "I can't help it, you know - but I hate you. All of you." Molly draws in a deep breath, shifting on her bed. It's not an answer to his question. Her voice sounds soft and fragile against the still quiet. "It isn't lack of charity or some misguided and misplaced patriotism - " - a pause, and her voice breaks - "I _hate_ you."

Sherlock stays silent, face carefully neutral as he leans his hand against the mantel. The light carves out his cheekbone, the side profile of his face. It occurs to him that she isn't speaking to him, that she is using him as nothing more than a vessel to spill her secrets.

Molly moves suddenly, turning her head to look out the useless window. Her thick braid moves with her, catching the harsh light of the fire to turn a glinting copper. She presses her lips together tightly in an effort to ward off the coming tears.

"Do you know how my brother died, Captain Holmes?" she asks in an attempted conversational tone. "I suspect you might've done some research before coming to my home a week ago, maybe to protect yourself or simply out of curiosity." When Sherlock shakes his head mutely - he hadn't, she raises her eyebrows, in an act of acerbic surprise. "No? Well - much credit to you. But I shall have to tell you then." Molly puts the cup down on the stand beside the bed. Her voice hardens, and her hand falls to her lap forcefully: "The Boston Massacre."

Sherlock flinches. The air stalls between them, swirls of dust settling and ash rising.

"Granted," she continues almost coldly, "it wasn't much of a massacre - just the perfect bit of propaganda for the Patriots, but it - it _felt_ like one." She drops her brown eyes down to her folded hands, and he turns to look at the fire. "You've no idea, Captain Holmes," she says lowly, and his title sounds like a rebuke, "what it is like to have your own brother fall against you and look down and see that he is _bleeding_ \- just _everywhere_ \- "

Molly draws in a deep breath, ignoring the tears once again falling down her cheek, and says in a businesslike tone, "It's understandable, I'm sure, why I might have some wariness or even dislike of the British soldiers, no?" She lets out a short laugh, almost bitter in its delivery. "I don't know why I'm telling you any of this - I suppose it's late, and I'm tired and just had a dream I haven't had in a year, and you've caught me in the witching hour."

The fire sparks loudly and abruptly, but neither of them react, sitting silently, rooted in their places. The air is volatile, a current of distrust crackling between them.

Sherlock runs an agitated finger along his jawline. He speaks quietly, "I had assumed something along the sorts. Your general animosity to me spoke of more than simple patriotism, and your emotional reaction to a mysterious nightmare gave me" - he stumbles a bit on his words, attempts at comforting foreign to his tongue - "the general picture."

She says nothing, just looking at him with her large brown eyes - just the barest hint of tears shining in the corner.

"I am sorry," Sherlock says hesitantly. "Not for the soldiers firing - that was justified and frankly, the colonists were provoking them - but rather, for your brother's death. That is - _was_...most unfortunate," he finishes lamely, internally wincing at the awkward fumble.

It's terrible, maybe the worst apology Molly has ever heard and more than a little offensive. If she chose this moment to become angry again she believed she would be justified - but Molly is far too tired and far too eager to get some much needed rest.

She manages a weak smile. "It was a long time ago." Molly picks up the cup, standing up abruptly. "Are you back for good, Captain Holmes? Your campaign took you away for quite awhile - I did not hear you arrive last night."

He looks relieved at the conversation change, and responds vigorously, "Not for good, perhaps, Miss Hooper. But I was assigned some time off from any further missions, so I will be at your disposal for the time being. Perhaps I could help around the farm, should you need any assistance." Sherlock hesitates, tracing the outline of his lips uncertainly. "Miss Hooper, our relationship since the beginning seems to have been... _rife_ with emotional wounds and hurt feelings. As much as I enjoy this" - he searches for a word - " _purging_ of true sentiments," - his features twist distastefully as he speaks with as little sarcasm as he can - "I find it a constant source of exhaustion that I do wish we could...seek to avoid." The captain's discomfort is clear, and - like a child - he shifts on his feet uncomfortably, attempting to hold himself as dignified as possible with one hand still on the mantel.

A truer smile this time, more easily found. "I suppose this is true - I find myself often with sleepless nights when you are involved, Captain." A small blush on her cheeks, as the sentence does not quite convey the intention she had wished. "As for help around the farm," - she smiles wanly - "I would be much obliged, Captain Holmes."

 **I hoped to explain just a little more why Molly and Sherlock are going to have a rough go of it. Tell me what you think - it makes me write!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Extremely fluffy chapter. This one's for Meg, thank you so much for leaving reviews! I really appreciate it, it's how chapter 7 and 8 got written :)**

 **I actually can't believe that I've managed to update it weekly, if you see my other stories you'll know that that is a singular event. It's all you guys! But I did have some trouble posting this, something with ?**

Molly lifts a weary white hand to her forehead in an effort to wipe away her cold sweat, streaking a line of black dirt across her forehead as she lets out a long held-in sigh. Sitting back on her heels, she casts a martyred look at the empty yoke and buckets lying close to her, unwilling to make the long trip back to the well for more water.

A line hangs between two ancient trees, wet fabrics of white, blue, and brown fluttering like flags in the wind. The tub lies on its side beside it, soapy water still trickling out serenely.

The door of her home swings open and shuts, and she glances up to see Sherlock stepping towards her. He's dressed not in his usual uniform of red, but instead in a dirty, white work shirt and plain breeches - and it occurs to Molly that she's never seen him in civilian clothing other than that first night. It rather suits him - where the simple, unadorned outfit should wash out and normalize this man, it only highlights compliments his aristocratic features, the high cheekbones, the dark curly hair, and the trim, lean figure. She thinks to herself that he would stand out as striking in this unassuming combination more than he ever would in his formal and decorated captain's garb.

Sherlock nods not unkindly to her, if not as stiff as always. Molly shields the hand over her eyes to block the sun, managing to send a warmer smile in his direction. He makes his way to her side, the toe of his boots barely coming into contact the garden's spilled dirt.

He inclines his head to the blooming tree on the far side of her property, raising his eyebrows in a half-surprised expression. "An orange tree," Sherlock muses thoughtfully. "Unusual - oranges are frequently a rich gentleman's offspring, not commonly found in the garden of a single, unmarried, orphaned girl."

She exhales a quick breath in a near-snort, aware that Sherlock was likely unaware of the insult his words carried. She'd lived with this man long enough to know that he exclusively spoke the unrestrained truth, no matter how harsh or cutting it was. "A relic from my father. I believe he" - she laughs with old, familiar fondness - "saved some ancient, rich hermit and in return, gave my father the seed." Molly turns her head to the tree, curving her pink lips into a smile. "We planted it together."

"I don't believe I asked for a history, Miss Hooper," Sherlock remarks curtly. When she glances up at him, shocked at the extent of even his rudeness she sees that he is smiling just barely down at her - thus allowing her to surmise that the captain is simply teasing.

Molly might've allowed her mouth to gape open, if she'd not known how much he would hate that reaction.

A silence falls, as does in every conversation at its natural conclusion and crossroads - take it further, or leave it be?

Sherlock nods at the yoke, lying now at her feet. "Where is your hand to fetch the water?"

Molly laughs, amused at the obvious British scholar out of place on a simply run colonial farm. "No such hand available nor existing, Captain. I'm afraid I do the hauling myself." The smallest hint of pride is in her voice, but overshadowed easily by the weariness and distaste that is also clear.

He raises his dark eyebrows, half-impressed - she's a slight woman, not one you would typically think capable of such an unusual feat. Yet his voice is carefully dismissive - nearly sardonic to one not listening carefully - when he speaks, "Quite admirable, Miss Hooper."

Molly drops her hands back down to the earth surrounding a cabbage, tamping down the black dirt solidly with her palms and delicate tips of fingers.

He hasn't moved, despite her obvious lack of response. His deep voice comes again from above her. "I came to inquire if you would be willing to go for a ride, Miss Hooper - or a race even, if that suits your tastes more. Redbeard is restless, and I know that you find it enjoyable to ride Toby." Sherlock smirks though she cannot see him, finding an easy opening for provocation - surely the quickest way to an answer. "We may survey the British land together - perhaps you'd like to give me a tour."

 _This_ she chooses to respond to, standing up sharply and brushing the crumbles of earth off her apron and skirts. "Having been born in America and never catching sight nor setting foot on England, you'll find that many of the colonists identify as _Americans._ As loyal as you are to your country, Captain Holmes, you may expect we are to our own." Her words are crisp, but not quite yet rebuking. She brushes her slim hands - wiping the last of the dirt off - before she clasps them together in a sharp clap. "But talk no more of politics." Molly smiles up at him, her face pleased and glowing from her light exercise. "I find the idea of a ride quite agreeable."

They make their way to the stable, and she leads her horse from the stall gently, fondly stroking the well-kept coat. In the open air, Molly swings herself up onto Toby, ignoring the constraints of her skirts. The horse's coat is warm from the early morning sun, but the crisp air is cool enough to keep her comfortable. Sherlock is already waiting for her outside the large doors, atop the regal and sleek Redbeard, whose head is tossed back arrogantly in a finen impression of his master. Still, Redbeard stands still and graciously allows Toby to trot over and nuzzle against him, seeming to have a grudging soft spot for the spotted mare.

The pair walk to her field, large and well-kept especially for a single woman's farm. Molly has always taken great pride in it, and is often complimented for the attractive appearance - slow, sloping hills with supple grass, a neat fence of logs lining the boundaries. Truthfully though, Molly thinks she preserves it mostly for her horse, so fond of he she is.

The chestnut and the spotted gallop freely, tracing large, well-formed circles around her field - enjoying the chance to stretch their legs. They come from opposite directions, seeming to be destined to collide until the last moment - a slight bend, a curve of the graceful neck, and the other is missed narrowly. The owners have little to do atop their creatures, reins lying as faux controls in their stilled hands.

Their eyes connect, as the horses' circuits grow smaller and smaller, each time seeming to come closer and closer to a collision before pulling away. The captain is regal atop his horse, and Molly finds she can easily picture him among his other comrades.

Redbeard and Toby finally slow, hooves thundering on the grass and tossing their heads friskily. They come to a stop, Molly and Sherlock facing each other in the center of the field.

"Enjoy the ride, Captain?" Molly calls to him, laughing in the crisp air.

Sherlock nods amiably, a small, curved smile on his lips. He calls back from across the way, "It's been awhile for Redbeard, as you can see. I'm sure it's refreshing for him to be back in the open fields - I can assure you it is for me."

"Well, I hope you are not entirely satisfied, Captain Holmes." The twinkle in her eyes is evident from even the distance they are apart, and Toby picks his paws up impatiently, snorting loud air from his nostrils. "As I recall, you did promise me a race."

Sherlock tightens his grip on the reins eagerly, a boyish grin crossing his face.

Without waiting for a surely affirmative reply, Molly turns her horse in a tight circle, calling over her shoulder, "To the stream, Captain!" She urges Toby forward with a whisper, leaning closer to his mane as he begins to pick up speed - long strides pointed straight at the fence.

He gallops faster, so smoothly that she doesn't jostle atop him, dark forest on the other side beckoning.

In a strong, effortless push off the ground, the spotted mare takes a fluid leap over the fence, long legs extended neatly outwards. Molly flies with him, laughing as together they began to fall, his front hooves hitting the ground in an already ready stride. A step behind her, she can hear the late starter Captain Holmes, hot on her trail and in pursuit. She tosses her head back, just in time to see Redbeard execute a perfect, practice, disciplined leap.

Molly cannot speak for the captain, but the blood is coursing through her veins, adrenaline pumping her heart faster as she breathes in the cold, fresh air. Her pale cheeks flush gently as she leans evermore forward on Toby, an eager smile on her face.

Together, they thunder through the forest, passing trees and jumping rocks in breakneck speeds. She can't help but laugh, the elation and euphoria pushing cool air from her lungs. Slowly, Sherlock gains ground on her, until Redbeard and Toby are neck to neck, each pulsing forward with the urgings of their masters. Each hooves struck the dirt forcefully, pushing their muscles and legs forward in a single bound - Molly suddenly understood Captain Holmes' fascination with the mechanics of their speed and strength, having never much thought of it before.

They break into a clearing, a crystal stream cutting through with sun reflecting merrily across it. The horses stop with their owners' urgings and gentle pulls, splashing the water high as they pause and skitter in the new territory.

With the stopping of the roar of wind in their ears, the breathless breaths and gasps of themselves and the other is evident. Sherlock laughs in exhilaration, loud and long and deep and achingly happy echoing and bouncing off the water and trees to fill the clearing. He turns his head, the jawline sharpening as it does, and Molly watches as he takes in a long and contented breath. He is natural in this new air, the loose white shirt not clinging as stiffly as his uniform - and seeming in turn to loosen _him._ Molly smiles gamely at the reverberating sound as Toby rears in the water before coming down with a sharp whinny. She steadies herself and him with calm capability, holding the reins firmly as he finally settles, well-used to the perils of her horse's antics.

"I believe I had you beat, Miss Hooper," Sherlock calls to her, an easy smile playing on his lips as he teased her not unkindly. He dismounts, catching the reins in his hands and sliding down the side to land lightly on his feet.

Molly follows in kind, sliding her leg to join the other in proper sidesaddle, managing to give nothing more than delicate footfalls on the new land. Her eyes sparkle excitedly from the exercise, and she grins back. The smattering of freckles across her fair skin is visible even from across the stream. "While your powers of deduction are admirable, Captain Holmes, your powers of persuasion need work." Toby bends his neck to drink thirstily after his sprint - so she releases the reins to allow him his freedom. Taking the cue, Redbeard trots over to join his side - permission obtained with a nudge to his owner's shoulder and a stern, stately nod - and Sherlock approaches her, his open grin and bright sun setting her at ease. Molly inclines her head in mock sternness. "I believe I saw an easy foot behind me before you joined."

"And more than two gained!" He throws his dark head back in a laugh, inadvertently shaking small droplets of water from the curls. The bottom of her skirts are stained dark with the wet, and she digs the toe of her shoe into the shore, loosened strands of hair hiding the uptick in her lips. "Had there been no _cheating_ and head starts, you would have found yourself quite left behind, Miss Hooper."

Molly lifts her face to him, dark eyelashes framing her merry eyes. "Pray tell me, Captain, are you always so sore a loser?" She takes on the tone of a meddling and matronly governess, "Perhaps this race and my victory will be a lesson to you."

Their banter is sharp and good-natured, calling from each side like a well-timed theatre. They quip and tease with natural will, surprisingly comfortable for a pair until recently was only fraught with political differences and emotional upheavals. But neither are on the forefront of Sherlock and Molly's minds as they continue the fast-paced dialogue.

Sherlock opens his mouth - most likely for a finely sharpened and prepared retort - when his eyes fall on something near her feet buried within the collection of wildflowers, quicksilver eyes widening fractionally. With a disbelieving shout, he descends upon it, falling to his knees in front of some hidden prize. Startled, Molly steps back, crying out, "Captain Holmes! Are you hurt?"

There is no immediate reply, as the man cradles his discovery in his hands. " _Cicuta virosa_ ," he breathes reverently, gently turning a delicate leaf in his fingers to examine more closely - she furrows her brow, wondering for one wild moment if he is trying to impart the cure of his apparent sudden and devastating illness to her, the name of the obscure plant doing little to guide her. "Water hemlock," Sherlock continues lowly, as if not to startle the flowering buds, "Only present in North America and regarded and revered as one of the most poisonous plants existing." He keeps his eyes intent on the slightly quivering stem, incredulity and excitement straining each line in his body.

Relief flooding suddenly back into her as she gauges the cause of his actions, she lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, her shoulders sagging with newfound thankfulness. Breath recovered, she quirks a dark eyebrow wryly, eyes fondly watching the boyish-like excitement he exudes. "Revered?" Molly asks amusedly, a smile on her lips.

Sherlock grins back in acknowledgement, not lifting his eyes from the delicate bunches of blooms. "Perhaps not by those who consume it," he admits, conceding this point. His eyes grow cheeky, finally glancing up at her. "Though none have lived long enough to tell us."

"Then perhaps there is some value in the colonies after all?" she continues, fully teasing him now. Sherlock must have heard and interpreted the cues, as he keeps his gaze on her, the crooked grin spreading and forming crinkles around his eyes.

"Oh, just maybe, Miss Hooper, just maybe." Eagerly, he begins to dig his hands into the dark earth, obviously intent on pulling the stem from the earth.

Molly cries out to stop him, dropping to her own hands and knees to still his fingers. "You want to preserve the roots, do you not?" She guides his palm to the outer edges, forming a circle around the specimen in the dirt. Sherlock's eyes linger surprised on her downcast eyelashes, taking in the curve of her temple, but she doesn't seem to notice - focused as she is on her work. In a sure, experienced tone, she continues, "Dig down from here and you will have the complete sample to work with."

He nods like a dumbfound schoolboy, suddenly aware of their proximity to each other with stunning clarity. Every breath she takes Sherlock can feel down to his bones, every movement stirring sounds in his ears. Every freckle on her face he is acutely aware of - a pattern on her right cheekbone looking suspiciously like the constellation Cassiopeia - when he knows he should be focusing on his newfound entertainment in the ground.

Molly has the plant out of the ground in a moment, each root carefully preserved and whole as she lifts its into his open palms. Bits of dirt fall out of the makeshift container, but Sherlock ignores it, solemn respect in his eyes as he regards the specimen.

She stifles a laugh, not eager to allow the captain to see her amused at his seriousness regarding the plant. She appreciates the science and beauty of it, but the sheer amount of worship he is currently displaying cannot help but appear as a humorous caricature to her. The ends of her lips curve into a fond smile. _But here's a ridiculous idea for you,_ comes the wry thought. _The number of times I've smiled today - I must look like a fool._

"I'm afraid I'm all out of jars for your sample, Captain," Molly begins cautiously. "I have been - reluctant to go into town, but as I'm in dire need of supplies and you require a holder, perhaps it would been in our common interest to have you escort me into town?"

Sherlock beams, apparently thrilled as his eyes light up, more green now than she has ever seen them, and he nods his quick agreement, walking to Redbeard and Toby - who have moved on from the water to the grass. "It would be my pleasure," he replies in seriousness, mounting the bay in one swift motion. Once more, he is the regal captain and commander, lean legs straddling his horse with the reins gathered in his strong hand.

Molly steps towards her own, laying an affectionate palm against Toby's neck. She grimaces, gathering her skirts in one hand while capturing the reins in her left. Pushing herself up, she settles her legs on the side of Toby, arranging her skirts for the dreaded sidesaddle. Huffing out a tired breath through her nose, Molly looks up, only to see the captain gazing at her thoughtfully.

"Going into town requires some decorum, Captain Holmes," she explains in a mock-haughty tone, half-focused on keeping her precarious balance. She settles herself into a more comfortable position, pulling her shoulders back rigidly, keeping her hips even and pointed forward. "And while you may not be well-acquainted with the concept" - he snorts, hiding his amused grin - " _some_ of us find it important to maintain."

In a deliriously good mood because of his recent botanical find, the captain mere replies amicably, "Right you are, Miss Hooper, right you are." Tugging Redbeard in a tight, military circle, he casts a glance at the thick wood, announcing confidently, "I believe it is this way." A call over his shoulder, "Keep up."

Molly rolls her eyes but follows suit, yanking the reins to catch up to the captain. Their horses walk together, the lazy pace rocking their passengers with every step. They ride in silence, listening instead to the heavy hooves lifting and dropping back into the dust from the roads.

Molly is nervous, and an uncomfortable pits grows in her stomach with every step of Toby's. She wishes she could take her statement back, but it's far too late now - should she try and abort this trip then surely the captain would see her only as a simple minded and not at all a scientifically interested woman.

The man in mind is squinting at her curiously. "Are you quite alright, Miss Hooper? You look very pale."

She lifts a hand to lay against her cheek, her voice the slightest bit faint. "Do I? I suppose I may be - rather anxious."

His brow furrows, confusion clearly overtaking his face. "Whatever for? What could you possibly have to fear?"

Molly stares at him, less offended than alarmed at his apparent short-term memory. "Captain - Captain _Holmes_ \- "

Sherlock nods to himself suddenly, his forehead smoothing out and returning to his resting slightly-arrogant expression. "Ah - ah, yes. Forgive me, I had forgotten." A slight hesitation, before he reluctantly adds, "If you prefer we not go, Miss Hooper, I suppose - "

"No," Molly stops him, in calm decisiveness. "No, it's quite alright. I rather think I...I think it's about time I face it."

"Perfect timing then." He nods to the looming buildings, the storefronts with citizens bustling around in easy sight. Molly draws in a shaky breath, doing her best to calm her most likely ill-founded nervousness.

He glances at her, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth in an attempted soothing tone, "Your fears are irrational and illogical - almost certain a symptom of your recent emotional trauma, coupled with the excess of sentiment typically associated with a woman - "

"That'll do, Captain Holmes," Molly interrupts, a little tersely. She stares determinedly ahead, swaying with the steady motion of her horse.

A smile comes across Sherlock's lips, and he says with a hint of the former teasing, "Courage, Miss Hooper."

"God willing," she agrees lowly, her shoulders straightening and hands tightening on the reins.

They continue on, horses trudging closer to their destination. Molly catches the curious looks of more than a few passersbys, as the captain and she are an obvious pair in travel. Toby comes to a stop in front of her regular general store, well-used to her familiar haunts; Redbeard understands, coming to a halt in front of the post.

Sherlock and Molly dismount their horses; she gracefully, and he with casual elegance. The horses are hitched to the post nonchalantly, and together, they mount the wooden stairs to enter the store.

The wood board floors are swept clean, and products from England and India alike line the walls to fill the store to the brim. The air smells fresh, the light filtering in through the large glass window to throw into contrast the merry dust particles floating through the store.

Immediately Molly heads to the far wall, away from the window, her business clearly in the food products found there. A clerk comes to her side swiftly, plainly eager to help the young woman.

Sherlock - having picked up the necessary jar and paid with an unconcerned hand - watches her as she haggles and bargains with the experienced store keep, her fingers tensing in her skirts every time the price rises instead of coming to meet her. _Financial troubles_ , he sees again, a condition he's diagnosed many other times before she. It was all too typical - a single, fairly young woman living on a farm with only cows as her source of income, she was bound to have some debts. But in other cases, where Sherlock would usually shrug and move on disinterestedly - _after all, who really cares_ \- he feels his throat clench uncomfortably, arresting eyes seeing the worn, pale blue fabric fisting in her palm; it doesn't unclench.

Sherlock clears his throat loudly, turning away from her. As he does, his eye catches the racks of fabric, sample dresses on mannequins lining and promising well-made garments. Seeing even the slightest bit of interest, a different man hurries to accommodate the potential buyer. Even as an exceptionally obtuse man to names and faces, Sherlock can recognize this newcomer as the rare Italian colonist, Angelo.

Angelo smiles genially, his accent thick and breaking up his nevertheless booming words. "Sherlock Holmes, the man who saved me" - he points a finger at Sherlock - who manages a half-grimace back, face growing serious - "I'd be in the stocks, the gallows without you, and I won't likely forget it." They shake hands, Angelo moving his hand up and down vigorously. "What, sir, can I do for you?"

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, but still manages a fond smile for the enthusiastic man. "A simple case of thieving, at most you would have been branded." An uncomfortable hand falls to the worn and smooth wood of the counter, drumming his fingers against it agitatedly. Impulsively, in an effort to satisfy the intolerable clenching in his stomach, he continues, "I believe I require a dress." The blue-green falls on the swathes of fabric again. "Two - actually. Two. And boots, and a new cloak."

The merchant chuckles, shaking his head good-naturedly. "Quite a hefty list, Mr. Holmes. Can I assume it's not for you?"

Sherlock confirms his inquiry painfully, grimacing slightly. His discomfort forces rigidness into the captain's posture.

"Then the lady in question," Angelo continues merrily, "would does she look like?" His eyebrow shoots up questioningly. "I ought to know for the colors and cut."

Sherlock's brow furrows, struggling honestly to depict the woman to this foreign merchant. He's more adept at military strategy than poetry or character descriptions - Sherlock Holmes is no author. "She is" - the words elude him - "short?"

The storekeeper raises his dark eyebrow at the captain doubtfully, before inclining his head at Molly standing by the counter now looking at the pounds of sugar. He asks, an amused expression on his face, "Could that be the young lady you are referring to?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, visibly relieved at the merciful end to his torture. His shoulders sag as he lets out a long held-in sigh, releasing some of the tension in his stance. Leaning in closer, the captain lowers his volume, saying, "I'm sure you understand, I'm rather unskilled when it comes to women's fashion. And I suppose, it's a sort of...surprise." His deep voice ticked up at the end uncertainly, forcing a questioning feel into his dialogue.

Angelo nods solemnly, laying a finger across his lips in the universally recognized vow of secrecy. "I'll be sure to have those for you - " - the finger moves to tap knowingly against his temple - "I know the best seamstress for it." The man bustles away, humming happily to himself.

"Thank you," Sherlock sighs, glad for this exchange to finally be over, and his hands fall back into their standard position behind his back, one palm still closed around the cool glass of the jar.

Molly makes her way back to him, a newly-acquired basket laden with the necessities that she had long ignored. She smiles, but the slight furrow of her brow gives away the lingering worry over the amount of coin she parted with today - prices seems to be going nowhere but up. She inquires if he's ready to go, and Sherlock nods, bowing to Angelo stiffly before offering an arm to Molly. Taken gratefully, they make their way back out the store, and to their waiting horses.

 **Please leave a review, tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry I haven't updated in awhile, last week was bumpy and busy with family issues. But all is good, and here is the chapter!**

 **I expected many of you won't like this one, but the point is I'm building up to the next one, which is _very_ Sherlolly and a _monster_ for me - so stick with me, and tell me what you think.**

The days passed one after the other, the last frail summer month finally giving way to the harsher autumn. It was a relief to feel the crunch of dry leaves underfoot - to no longer suffer in the crowded streets - but even so, the cold set in more bitterly than the summer locked mourners can ever seem to remember. And as always, with the arrival of the nipping cold, the conversation disintegrates yet once more into a number of variations on the fondly spoken phrase, "Oh, but the cold bites, doesn't it?" - to which you receive immediate and profuse agreements.

"I'm sorry, miss - but we can't help you."

Molly stares at the young shop clerk, her lips parting uncertainly at his blatant refusal to assist her, and he stares stubbornly back, his chin jutting forward in some show of defiance - but whatever for, she couldn't say. His brow twitches at her hurt, startled expression, perhaps not used to denying the requests of others for the sake of denying but apparent his resolve hardens, for his face closes off once again, stiffly dismissing any protests she might have. "I just need a half-pound," she repeats weakly, her hands beginning to tremble, hovering uncertainly on her plain skirts.

"We don't serve your kind here."

 _What kind?_ she wonders, but she knows the answer anyway. The half-pound of flour she had requested is lying ostentatiously on its side on the counter not a foot from her hand, despite the clerk's denial of any such product's existence. Noticing her line of sight, he quickly shoves the package forcefully to the side, before turning pointedly aside to assist a new customer.

A light blush spreads across Molly's pale cheeks as her thin lips come together to stop any potential arguments, and her head falls instinctively as she nods in painful, jerky acceptance. Carefully, other people in the store - people she had known since birth - studiously avoid her eyes, turning to show their backs to her and apparent interest in the goods lining the walls. That's the third store she's visited, with each giving her the same cold treatment.

Molly knows why, but Lord - she wishes she didn't.

She leaves the store, the beginning of tears stinging in her brown eyes, and Molly does her best to tug her cloak closer against her shoulders to avoid the poisonous looks of the people of Boston as she shoulders past them. It's easy enough to pick out the ones inclined with the British - she attracts no attention from them. The sea spray from the nearby dock hits the hem of her skirts, staining the plain cloth dark - the air is tumultuous, crackling with the feel of a nearby storm.

" _Traitor."_

The words are hissed - quiet enough that it could only be directed at her - so when Molly turns her head sharply to identify the accuser, it's difficult to pinpoint exactly who it was from. The harbor is crowded with many people attempting to go about their daily business, many shooting dirty looks her way as she blocks their path with her pursuit.

Too many faces and bodies pass her hastily, shoulders bumping against hers in their hurry to the next destination, none even glancing her way. It's a fruitless search, so Molly resigns herself to passivity when she hears the taunts again.

"Redcoat _whore._ "

She jerks around once more, her face flushing immediately as her worn, pale green skirts whirl to catch up with her sudden movement. They fall against her aged boots as she is still casting a glance around the moving crowd, trying once more to ascertain the location of her tormenter.

And there stands Sally Donovan, a dirty apron tied around her waist over her unwashed skirts, the edge of a torn petticoat peeking out just above the dusty cobblestones. Her arms are crossed over her bodice in a perhaps unintentional mimic of the shop clerk's stance; large, dark, and unrepenting eyes staring straight at Molly as she leans against the side of the old church house - the stately, white steeple stretching high in the greying sky.

"Sally," Molly acknowledges her softly, surprise and hurt mixed together, and her dark brows pull together as the wound begins to settle in.

The woman cocks a challenging eyebrow, pushing with her shoulder against the brick to walk over to Molly, still standing a pointed distance from her, chin tilted imperiously upwards as though she were something to look down upon.

It suddenly strikes Molly how similar to Captain Holmes the woman looks. How small they both make her feel.

"Forget your brother so soon, Molly Hooper?" Sally's voice sounds like an accusation, and her words hit home; nausea and guilt rises in her stomach. A short, bitter laugh escapes the woman's lips. "You certainly move on fast."

Molly opens her mouth to object empathetically, the tears smarting once more and a breath caught in her throat, but she can't seem to find the words to form a real argument. It's a slap in the face, one that Molly can't help but feel keenly. She hasn't the chance to defend herself aloud with the silent treatment as of late, and while it rang loud and clear and convincing in her head, her words fail her in the crucial seconds. Her voice is shaky when she replies lowly, "You know that's not true."

Derisively, the other woman scoffs, her hands clasped on the front of her skirts. "Oh? Are you not the unmarried woman living with" - her tone becomes airy, mockingly grand - " _Captain_ Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly draws back, the acerbicness of Sally's tone hitting its target cleanly. There is no anonymity in the identity of her boarder, apparently - she supposed she might've known, the people of Boston have little talent for keeping to themselves. "The Quartering Act left me no choice, Sally - you know that," she says quietly.

"Not much fight though, was there, Molly?" she responds with a lifted eyebrow and a challenging look, dark eyes widening dramatically but still burning intently into hers. Her head tilts, dark hair in stark contrast with the white, cloudy sky. They lay in heavy blankets, leaving no room for any blue or sun. "Or perhaps you are just eager to snare the third-in-line for the Lord _Holmes_ title?"

Molly's blood runs cold, her face growing pale, and unconsciously she anxiously bites her lip; she hadn't the slightest knowledge of any title or apparent nobility that the captain carried, though it certainly aligns with and explains much of his aristocratic air and interest in scholarly subjects - he is a man bred in tutors, estates, luxuries. British army was certainly shame enough, but British _nobility_ is nothing short of outrageous - to the Patriot leaning citizens of Boston, blue blood and crowns are something routinely and easily ridiculed.

It used to be that she'd see caricatures of stuffy, fat old British nobles - lords and ladies - drawn proudly on whatever paper they could use almost everyday, but no one ever shows them to her anymore.

And, perhaps, ridiculous as it is, she had rather thought them acquaintances - if not hesitant friends - to _know_ this sort of thing about him.

"I'm not a traitor, Sally," Molly begins lowly, her familiar use of the woman's first name a sign of the uneasy history between them - she remembers when the woman used to be a daily visitor to the farm, as though an imperative element of her constitutional. Her stomach is twisting uncomfortably, nausea and anxiety twisting it in knots. Her hurt is rising with the allegations, and with it, her voice. "And I thought you would know more than anyone, considering our history, that I would _never_ become a Loyalist anymore than you would have turned your back on my own brother."

Sally's steely eyes don't waver, and her strong arms are once more crossed over her chest. Her face is blank of any sympathy or emotion as she responds flatly, "You live with a British officer, one with a title that's been in the family for generations, a veritable propaganda picture for everything your brother once mocked. The whole town saw the pair of you during your ride into town, which didn't seem so unfriendly. And everyone knows that he has been using his privileges to get you extra rations during the occupation - a personal favor to you, he says." Sally pauses, and her chin rises to deliver her last words. "Would that your brother or even Greg could see you now. Perhaps they'd agree that you're not quite the Patriot or anti-Loyalist you thought, Molly Hooper."

The woman saunters away, satisfied with the bullets she has managed to fire so capably. Molly watches her walk away, her lips pressed hard together in an effort to stay the tears. Somewhere, in the back of Molly's reasonable mind, she knows that Sally is reacting and lashing out only from some hurt that must have manifested from seeing her old friend living so peacefully with a British officer. Had the woman done the same not two months ago Molly is sure she would have reacted in similar fashion, though perhaps not with such scorn and disdain. Confrontational has never really been Molly's approach, one of the more prevalent differences between she and the belligerent Sally Donovan.

Her stomach rolls unpleasantly, and Molly grimaces, pressing a hand against it while reaching the other out to lean heavily against a brick building. She feels faint, as though not enough air is being taken in, her breaths coming faster and harder the more she thinks.

But what of Sally - suppose she was right. While the initial transition into her new life had been admittedly difficult and largely unpleasant, now she and the captain had settled into some easy sort of companionship with the decided agreement of no more emotional purgings - which thus far had been a standard closely followed. No arguments for at least a week, save for the occasional squabble over some of the strange habits Captain Holmes maintained from his life as a carefree bachelor, or as an esteemed officer in a long praised army. Often she'll find herself startled awake from her sleep by haunting and beautiful music from the man's violin, but other times it's simply a dreadful screech of bow dragging across strings to punctuate that the man is, indeed, bored. Other nights the door is slammed ungraciously, and he takes Redbeard from his place in the stables for a good, long ride, frequently not returning until the dawn has just begun to break. Many times he is gone for days on campaigns, then returns at odd hours with a stray comment - which eventually Molly was able to recognize as a continuation of a menial conversation had over a week ago. It was six sleepless nights in a row of this before Molly had put her foot down quite determinedly, insisting that this could not go on - she had threatened to stop her steady supply of homemade meals for the captain, a luxury he suddenly found himself unable to go without. Thus, Sherlock promised to limit his midnight interruptions to at most four nights out of a week. While their interactions had been many times stiff or awkward - his blatant identity and her uncompromising beliefs always a constant presence within the room - they have of late managed to find common interests: his love of science and experiments, and her appreciation and knowledge of medicinal plants and their uses. Passionate arguments and discussions late into the night by the roaring fire was fast becoming the norm, once or twice replacing his other ill-timed rendezvouses. It was a comfortable existence, if not quite the ideal one.

Even before her brother's untimely death, the mere idea of living with this man would have been beyond reprehensible, when now she has even more cause to hate that army. Her stomach rolls, fast-coming nausea rising in her throat, the beginnings of a headache throbbing; yet here she was, enjoying a tenuous somewhat friendship with the man, _housing_ him, feeding him, having daily conversations - _amiable_ ones. Molly's self-incredulity grows, her dark brows furrowing as she tries to remember - what in the world was she doing? Accepting personal favours and helps and companionship from a man who stands for everything she hates? A man siding with the country that holds hers hostage, a man that fundamentally disagrees with everything she's ever believed in - _Sherlock Holmes,_ the officer of the people who killed her brother.

No, Sally Donovan is right - she's barely herself anymore. Molly has allowed herself to be charmed too easily but the arrogant, aristocratic behavior, but no longer; the man is a stranger in her home, nothing more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sherlock and Molly were just a little too chummy, weren't they? I agree.**

Sherlock Holmes has stayed at Margaret Hooper's for no more than a month when he returns triumphantly to the small farm, no small bit of news in hand. She had just returned from her time in town and her conversation with Sally and she stands now carefully unaware of his approach to her home.

He bursts through the door loudly, rubbing palms together for warmth while tugging his boots enthusiastically to lay on the floor. The wind blows stray dead leaves into the home before Sherlock manages to close the door with a strong shove, silence immediately taking over the home again. The dark cloak is shrugged off to be slung over his arm, revealing the uniform of a proud officer returning from a patrol. From there, the man fairly parades to the kitchen, eager to share his piece.

Striding in, Sherlock tosses his wet cloak over a chair by the fire to dry carelessly, sitting down only to lean forward with keen anticipation. He claps his hands together triumphantly, announcing in a self-pleased tone, "I believe I have found the solution to your problems, Miss Hooper."

The crackling of the fire and logs makes for a merry feeling in the kitchen, and the cold does not permeate the room yet - much to the relief of the disenchanted boarder. It's almost dark outside, and the floor holds a thin, unmoveable layer of dust.

The woman in question is bending over the fireplace carefully, wooden spoon stirring the liquid in the hanging pot in soothing circles. Her shoulders are tense, tightness a common thread throughout her entire body - her confrontation with Sally Donovan left no visible, physical marks so she's almost certain he won't be able to deduce that about her - but then again, one can never tell with Sherlock Holmes. As a consequence her patience runs short - so she does her best to avoid the captain's eyes. Her forehead creases only the slightest, steadily not looking up as she asks with predetermined absentmindedness, "Problems, Captain Holmes?"

It is not unlike the British officer to often offer an interesting introduction to some outlandish piece of information, and then fall into silence for an hour at least - thus, Molly is rightly surprised and startled when he responds immediately and enthusiastically. Sherlock tugs at the tightly wound cravat, grunting as he finally manages to undone the elaborate knot.

"Yes, indeed," he grins. "Though I must admit my motives as not entirely selfless. You carry with you the opportunity to make my situation more comfortable - I could hardly pass that up." Sherlock flashes his quicksilver eyes at her, his knee bouncing up and down with anticipation.

Molly feels a light flush creeping up her neck - she turns back to the pot, carefully ladling the recently made stew into a bowl, setting it on the table in front of him. Sherlock accepts it with vague thanks, squinting at his water hemlock plant growing nicely on the windowsill - but observing a single browning leaf. His musician's fingers examine it, testing the dryness and texture. "Yes," he continues distractedly, half of his attention newly split, "A job - as a laundress."

Molly stops over the pot surprised, thick braid hanging down her back between her shoulder blades. Jobs such as those are rare nowadays, especially in Boston. The newly occupied town finds it advisable to tend to their own clothes, lest they find themselves in tricky situations involving the Patriot's encouraged form of currency rather than the traditional British coin. Even still, it's a desired position - steady money, labor not too strenuous - she'd enquired about recently and found no vacancies. The heat from the fire grows and spreads over the front of her plain dress, but she ignores it. Molly repeats his words, in a hardened, cautious tone, "A job, Captain Holmes - as a laundress."

"Yes - I expect it should be a help to your financial problems," Sherlock says again - he is squinting now at the stew, attempting to ascertain whether or not he is in the humour to eat this supper. When preoccupied, he has the habit of going days without eating - but when not, he was always ravenous for especially the home-cooked meals. Absentmindedly, "At the Belgravia House."

The spoon clangs against the metal pot as it falls from her hand - her large brown eyes widen disbelievingly. The captain takes no notice, spooning stew in his mouth with a surprised raised eyebrow and low, pleased hum. Molly gathers her skirts in her right hand, clutching it tightly enough to turn her knuckles white as she turns to face the oblivious man.

" _Belgravia_ House, Captain Holmes?" she questions lowly, voice taking on a dangerous impression. The addition of his title to every sentence serves only to turn the phrase more poisonous, a degree that can pierce even his frequently socially obtuse mind. Or they would have been able to, had he not been so distracted. His observant eyes fail him when otherwise engaged. "As in the building housing" - she draws in a strained breath, and immediately any man other than Sherlock Holmes would have known the answer - regardless or devoid of any truth - should be a resounding and outraged _no_ \- "the _British_ officers during their occupation of Boston?"

"Quite right," Sherlock agrees, blowing loudly into the bowl - presumably to lower the scalding temperature. It causes ripples in the surface, carving a sizable divot in the previously smooth canvas.

Her answer is cold, quick. "I'm afraid I cannot accept."

The man at her table is oblivious. "Why ever not?" he questions amusedly, as though she is being merely ridiculous. His iridescent eyes lift in a light roll. "Lord, is this some foolish woman modesty coming to light? No, no," he waves her off dismissively with his careless hand, not caring to look up to address her, "don't bother with that, it doesn't suit you. Perhaps just consider it a personal favor from the British army for housing one of their" - Sherlock smirks to himself, with a pleased grin against the spoon - "finest officers."

The words _personal favor_ mock her, having been uttered only hours ago by a less than complimentary critic.

Her voice hardens, cold and unflinching steel. "Captain Holmes, I think you are not listening. I _cannot accept._ "

The captain stops - another spoonful of soup dangling alluringly only just a few tempting inches from his ready and open lips - managing to note the potential precariousness he may be in. Sherlock debates with himself, his inner prey instincts warning that he is only moments away from being chewed out and eaten whole. A lie rises to his tongue with its familiar taste - _don't be ridiculous, Miss Hooper, of course you can_ \- but Molly narrows her dark eyes at him, and it dies just as quickly. _No good, would lead to more inevitable fighting, and God knows you're tired of that._ He lets out a martyred sigh, mentally steeling himself for any complaints she must have, but a swallow in his long aristocrat's neck betraying his uncharacteristic misgivings. Yet still, the inexperienced and foolish man tries for a semblance of dignity - cautiously attempting with his best air of nonchalance, "Oh?"

Good Lord, but the man had expected shouts of joy and perhaps foolish tears of gratefulness when he'd secured the position, coming to the farm as soon as possible in order to receive his hard-earned rewards - Molly had picked up a habit of making his favorite dishes when he'd especially pleased her with no insults or perhaps a rare moment of uncharacteristic thoughtfulness - it encouraged him, she believed. Perhaps Sherlock had misjudged the lady's amenableness to British officers - after all, they had lived together in relative peace for more than a fortnight, provided he speak not at all of any affairs involving the army. And when present in the situation playing out exactly as he'd confidently thought it wouldn't've, the captain begins to pick up on some of the holes and flaws in his ill-thought out plan, analyzing her profile. _Residue emotions from a seemingly stressful day - anger, predominantly - and misplaced blame from her brother's death_ \- Sherlock resists the urge to snort derisively - _but my God, how long does it take to get over things like that?_

 _Best not to voice that question._

Instead, Sherlock is sitting feeling quite vulnerable at the kitchen table, watching Margaret Hooper's eyes turn steelier by the second. To say "steaming at the ears" would be an exaggeration - one he frequently rolls his eyes at, as that is clearly, ridiculously, and simply biologically impossible - but she is by no means pleased either. Quiet anger is her forte. Her fingers are still curled rigidly around her skirts, the growing fury etching every line of her sharper against the amber fire.

But he doesn't quake, he _wouldn't_ \- that's not who this born and bred aristocratic captain is. He's not even quite sure why she is so suddenly angry - they'd been getting along well enough in the recent weeks - but he's never been the type to be censured meekly. So instead his shoulders pull back coldly, and Sherlock manages to look down icily at her despite his position sitting in a chair. His chin tilts arrogantly upwards, his lips falling into a hard line. _Defensive,_ a voice notes nastily in his head - like his brother. _Shut up,_ he snarls back. The voice falls silent; Sherlock might've smirked smugly if not on trial at the moment.

Molly steps forward slightly, her hem just brushing the floor - he instinctively leans back. Calmly, but with enough hardness behind her voice to warn him, she says flatly, "I trust you know why I am a little less than pleased, Captain Holmes."

"I can't imagine why," he replies carelessly - a fallback whenever unsure of his standing - only slightly alarmed at their new proximity, though he takes great care not to show it.

She bites out her next words; they fly through the air like a slap. " _Can't_ you? Even you should be able to see that you were being rather thoughtless."

Where the man had only simply been expecting a reprimand then respite, it seemed he was getting a real and thorough censure. Sherlock has always been too proud and hard to quiver and fall meekly while under fire, and as thus whenever confronted with any of his wrongdoings he provokes the presiding judge rather than accept any punishment. His hackles rise, furthermore unused to ever being accused of something - regardless of whether or not he committed such an action. _Consequences_ are not a word he is familiar with. Stiffly he retorts, any semblances of restraint or civilness thrown aside, "Perhaps you should be grateful, Miss Hooper, instead of directing your misplaced and frankly overdramatic anger on me. After all, I did secure you a position with steady and good money and renewed standing."

"Oh, do not mistake intruding in as an act of _heroism_ , Captain Holmes," Molly retaliates, her eyes hardened and voice startlingly acidic.

Quickly, their disagreement is spiraling out of control, the air turning volatile and dangerous - perceptive man that he is, Sherlock can sense it. Outrage and vexation is fast becoming the only common thread between their conflicting retorts, and with every answering bite it grows only more bitter.

But where could this be coming from? She seems so suddenly angry and offended, an irrational response to a simple favour. The good man can recall nothing but a pleasant enough morning, simple conversation without a chance of offending that usually Sherlock despises but found himself willing to tolerate, if only to stay in the woman's good graces. Though he could hardly acknowledge it even to his vast, superior mind, he's rather alarmed, and slightly hurt by her sharp reprimands, when the captain is fairly certain he had come from a place of true selfless delight in a good deed. Indeed, how dare she _not_ be grateful, falling to her knees with softly clasped hands?

He scoffs in response to her sardonic remark, throwing his hands into the air in cold exasperation. "You act as though I have personally offended you in some way - you would be foolish to turn down an opportunity as this when you so desperately need it. Surely you cannot _fault_ me at that?"

"I have never asked for your _help_ , sir!"

Once more he is disbelieving, his eyes widened in sheer incredulity. "Perhaps you misunderstand how much I had to do to secure this, Miss Hooper!" His voice rises, as does his anger - replacing his mere annoyance and slight offense. "I will not have a moment's _rest_ or a quiet evening to myself for the next fortnight - surely you can show your gratitude as any other _reasonable_ person would be obliged to do?"

She cries, "I do not object to the generosity of it, but the short sightedness you display when _expecting_ me to fall at your feet with thankfulness when forcing a station upon me among my natural and justified adversaries in both views and morals!" Molly is glaring at him, breathing harder as she lays the charges, hands lifting from her skirts to curl in the air with frustration. Even from his seated position, her angry replies can be felt as every individual breath.

"Whoever asked you to _fall to my feet_ , Miss Hooper?" He draws back, dark head falling back in mocking incredulity, eyes rolling as it does. The deep voice is cruelly derisive, ridiculing her easily. "Oh, you _are_ quick to scheme up some fanciful thought so _typical_ of a woman."

"Your manner and pride is a simple enough guide to your misguided expectations, Captain Holmes. Can you honestly demand my thanks and gratitude knowing my life, knowing my _brother's_ life as I have told you?"

He is standing now, the chair pushed back so violently that it falls to the ground with an unpleasant whine of displeasure - they ignore it. Real, vicious anger nudges at him, pushing pent-up and fury filled words from his mouth. "The _end_ of your brother's life - oh yes, I _know_ ," he snarls, his eyes lifting upwards dramatically as he mocks her. "Would that be so wrong, Miss Hooper? Is it so evil to expect so when I went out of my way to address a problem that even you were too proud to admit? When I used favours and charms to give you the chance to dig yourself out of the financial disaster your" - his voice becomes acidically sarcastic, and she would flinch if she didn't feel so righteously furious - " _dear_ departed father and brother left you when they so inconveniently found themselves _dead_?"

Her fair face drains of color, becoming a startling alabaster. Guilt lurches in him, but he forces it down coldly. Her words come out soft, but each syllable is an individual bullet designed to wound and filled with acerbic fury. "How dare you," Molly says, her voice shaky - a harsh whisper - but strong enough to make an impact - every nuance and inflection stings. "You have _no_ right." A breath, a beat - red rimming her darkened, injured eyes. "You, Captain Holmes, are nothing more than a forced upon intruder in this house - do not pretend like information I chose to share with you in a vulnerable time late at night is _yours_ to repeat, to me or anyone else."

The captain's temper can take no more, and he snaps, efforts to keep himself in check abandoned. " _Damnation_ , woman!" he roars, and the world seems to quiver at the end of his words, where instead of moments ceding to the next, they stretch on and on to hang in the air like dewdrops. He turns agitatedly from her, long fingers coming up to run raggedly through his dark curls, before they settle back by his side as he rotates back to face her.

Strands of her dark brown hair have fallen out of her swept up bun, lightly framing her angry, injured eyes and hard pressed together lips. The sun outside has begun to set, throwing golden light into the kitchen and filling the room with new piercing, bitter cold. She and the captain are standing not a foot from each other, her chin tilted up to better glare at him as she delivers her accusations, and he can see her chest heaving as she regains her breath. Molly can see his eyes from there - they're clearer than she's ever seen them, a strange tangle of blue, green, brown strands weaving in and out to create a spider web. There's a fleck of gold surrounding his iris, and she realizes not for the first time just how much his eyes seem to change, everyday. The flickers of the fire reflects off of the brass buttons of the British officers' uniform, and her own dark eyes are drawn to the blue lining.

"My apologies," the captain says stiffly, and it is clear to her that this is no more than angry placation - his rigid posture shows the fury still contained and wound tightly within him. He still believes himself justified in his position and actions - she couldn't blame him more so. "I was not aware how you would react to this bit of news."

It's backhanded as usual; not the blame or fault upon himself, but rather on the way she chose to respond to it - irrational and overly emotional, in his eyes. Molly presses her lips together hard as she fights to bite back yet another volatile retort.

Oftentimes, people find themselves in the midst of conflicts that start out as a simple issue, before old disagreements and slights bubble up to the surface to turn into something darker and turbulent. It's a forced-upon prelude to the ending of whatever form of relationship or kinship you have with that person, or a much-needed purging to finally start anew.

Whatever intimacy and trust from the horse ride previous together has fractured and broken, in a tension filled twenty or so argument. The remaining pieces lay scattered at their feet, sharp shards that have already pierced skin.

He continues, his tone flat and eyes unyielding and cold, "Yet I did secure you the position, Miss Hooper, and I trust you won't embarrass me by refusing to perform your duties." It's as if he is instructing a child - resentment rises in her breast, hard and unforgiving. Sherlock uses his height to look down arrogantly on her, if only to reinforce the image.

The air is fractured between them, every inhale a greedy intake stolen from the other as they stand close. There is no warmth left in the room, every exposed bit of skin is suddenly freezing and made aware in the cold. Molly cannot stop the small amount of moisture from gathering in the rims of her dark eyes, but she refuses to let them fall - they stay poised, ready to topple with only the slightest impetus.

She needs this. Lord knows how much she resents it, this appalling _charity_ and _bribe_ but Molly desperately, hopelessly _needs_ this. Her living is in dire straits, and the strain of a boarder only serves to hurt her meager earnings more; one cannot live off of his officer's rations and her pitiful income forever.

So Molly does what she has to: nods stiffly, coldly at the captain - watching his steely eyes examine her acquiescence with only a lifted, evaluating eyebrow; the defeated cannot help but accept it as a challenge and mockery. Then she brushes past him - the only sound in the stale, brittle kitchen her skirts swishing across the floor - to find her way up the stairs, leaving Sherlock Holmes all alone, marooned by himself.

He's better that way, after all.

 **Today is my birthday, and I figured as a gift to me and maybe to you that I'd upload a chapter, which through laziness and procrastination very nicely ended up being my favorite thing I've ever written so far. Please, let me know what you think!**


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